c.e.callender

  These are real love letters that I have written.

The numbers indicate a timeline.

    1.1

The sun was shifting and dripping dreary with rays. It floated back in an amber fade, placing us where we lay to remake the light. It spilled into shimmering notes that sparked in a transparent arc, existing outside of time. It was as if we had been all along together, hidden between hours and framed…

This is from a section of a larger piece I am working on. It starts at the 505th line in a segmented, long form poem.

Hissing and snapping, Lernaean beast that engenders the darkness, That covers the depths to land of shades, Hidden between a snow-white belly and spine, Can be heard the sounds of faint oceans, Indistinct rushing gives babbling liaison, Speaking to the demiurge’s creation. They…

In verdure grows the fowl, as well as the pleasant

West of the wastes do hinder this fate,

that the injuries of innocent oppress.

Enthrall this make of humility,

Pride of enchanted growth inside,

the groaning minds of us whom are distress.

All of Providence does sway,

as the ply feather in the storm and wind.

Those who are an idol to virtue of blind fortune,

blindly must prove their friendship,

t…

Meager Notions Of Me

Do you feel like you are at home? Is there a standard of victory placed with a thrust into the grounds near where you bed? There is a red weathered flag flowing in tatters on the hill. We lay beside the dense banks that slope intensely and irrevocably to the east. As I follow the incline down I can see the landscape before me widen into a dense green forest littered with the twinkling lights of…

Et in Arcadia ego: Even in utopia there is death.

I am not well versed enough, or at all, in Latin to know how to reverse such a term. If I could I would say “Even in death there is utopia. Perhaps my reading into the ideas of the former statement falls…